The heat of the day had reached it zenith, and still the men laboured beneath its blistering glare. All about the air hung still and heavy, not a breath of wind to disturb it, and the distant horizons shimmered. The sky above was washed out and cloudless, with no relief in sight.
The dead and the dying were collected from where they had fallen in the battle across the slopes leading up to the top of the ridge, the enemy stripped of weapons and armour and any valuables they had and piled up together near by to the bridge. There was not time enough to do more than that for them.
Wagons had followed up from the watering hole, bringing food and water for the weary men, and now they carried back the fallen from Ishkinil's army. The losses had been heavy in the desperate fight, with half of her cavalry now out of action and near one men in ten from her foot soldiers also a casualty. It would be a diminished force that would now face Uthash's army, though one buoyed by their victory, confident and experienced.
As they worked, the sorcerous barrier of sand that Ash-Negasu had raised fell away, the sands collapsing back into the desert, and they could see that his battered army had retreated, heading back towards the north, leaving behind men who had succumbed to their wounds.
“He has no choice but to head back to Avin Arech,” Ishkinil said, “For in his weakened state other covetous eyes will be upon his city, considering snatching it from him. Ever do the tyrants prey upon in each in times of weakness.”
“If only they would wipe each other out,” Anubarak said, “And do us all a favour.”
“That would not end their rule,” Sha-kalal stated gruffly, “For one would always emerge victorious, and the only ones that would lose would be the innocent who suffer under their iron yoke.”
“This does not end until they are overthrown,” Ishkinil said, “And that still is some time off.”
When the last of the dead and wounded were making their slow way back on the creaking wagons down the road, the army set off once more, marching through the heat of the rocky desert, beneath the afternoon sun. Weary they were from the long marches before and the bitter fight they had undertaken, with yet another battle ahead of them, but the watering hole lay before them, only a handful of hours away, and there they could rest in relative comfort, with all the water they could desire, to eat and celebrate their victory and mourn the fallen.
Ishkinil lead the way, riding at the head of the column, slowly catching up to the wagons and passing them to either side of the road, with words of comfort and encouragement given to the wounded who rode in them. The cavalry stayed escorting the wagons, even if no danger was expected to befall them, while the infantry marched on ahead.
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The day wore on and the sun began to sink towards the horizon as the watering hole and the oasis about it appeared before them. The men picked up their pace at the sight of it, for they could almost feel the shade of the trees and the taste of its cool waters.
Soon they were back at the watering hole, where those that had remained behind had made ready for their arrival, with food for them, vast pots of stews with hard bread and cheese for them to eat. The weary men collapsed in and around the oasis, discarding gear, and eating and drinking deeply, to recover strength from the long day.
The wagons followed along behind, with their cavalry escort, pulling up outside the oasis. The wounded were slowly removed from them, helped to an area set aside near the watering hole, beneath broad awnings that had been strung out between trees, to be tended for as best as could be managed. Busy were the men who looked after them, moving from man to man, to take care for their needs.
Ishkinil barely rested as she oversaw the needs of her men, both the living and the dead. Outside the oasis, in the hard earth of the ground, a vast pit began to be dug, for the burying of the many dead, teams of men hacking away at the soil and carting aside rocks. Long did it take, and the men pressed on, working by the light of torches and coming starlight. One by one the dead were laid in the pits, wrapped in their cloaks, row after row of them.
Only when the last of the dead had been laid to rest was the pit filled in again, and over it a vast cairn raised, with red stone collected from the wastelands around. Higher and higher it grew in the starlight, with only those too wounded to assist taking part in the ritual.
When a last the task was done, the men gathered around the burial pit, rank upon rank of them, holding aloft torches, flickering flames in the dark. Ishkinil stepped to the fore, before the men alongside the cairn that had been raised. She drew Dirgesinger, the white-blue flames flickering along its length, and raised the sword in salute to the fallen.
She began to sing, a dirge for the fallen, one deep and strong and mournful, a lament for lives lost, a remembrance for those who had stood and fought against evil. The whispering, almost discordant, voice of Dirgesinger took up the dirge, adding its own notes to the song. Then, one by one, the assembled army began to sing along, as thousands of voices rose up into the nights air, in honour of those that had fallen.
When the tune died away and their was silence again, Ishkinil spoke.
“Much has been asked of you,” she called out so that all could here, “And much more will be asked again in the future. Those that lay here in this ground have paid the ultimate price for our cause. I wish that it were not so, that evil could be thrown down without such a price being needed. One day, though, there will be peace again, and all can live free of the iron grip of tyrants. Until that day we must fight, and if necessary die. Let us remember those who have done so already, safe now in Enkurgil's embrace.”
A roar went up from the assembled army, and a cry given forth; 'Eshanur Uthar! Uthar Elunar!' Glory to the fallen. Glory to the heroes.